Little talks
by whenthemarshmallowmettheslayer
Summary: You compare us to Achilles and Patroclus. I doubt you don't know that apparently Patroclus' dogs were murdered by his own lover." Hannibal hums in acknowledgment, stirring the cooking peppers as he does so. "Achilles killed them after Patroclus' death. In actuality, he killed two out of nine so they could be with Patroclus on his pyre." (Or Greek myth and wendigos.)


The knife slides into the pepper. With ease Hannibal cuts around the stem before setting down the knife onto the chopping board. Firmly, he starts to pull out the stem only to pause, his eyes glancing at the door way a few seconds before Will enters it.

There's a scowl fixed upon the man's face; it's not unusual for such a thing, and that was before Harry left and had yet to send a letter, but this scowl is different. Hannibal finally tugs the stem and pepper seeds out before setting it on the side of the wooden cutting board. He grabs the knife so he can begin to spilt the pepper in half all the while Hannibal's eyes stay on his husband's. Yet Hannibal does not prod, nor does he start, as he waits upon Will to come to him; not just physical, his body kept apart from Hannibal's only by the wood in middle of the kitchen, but with what troubles him so dearly.

The slicing of pepper, a sharp knife against firm wood, is the only noise in the kitchen. Eventually even that ends as Hannibal has to grab the thin slices of pepper to throw them into the frying pan that already has olive oil and spices in it.

Briskly he grabs a wooden spoon so he can start to stir the food.

"Hannibal," Will starts only to pause to take a sip of his dark roasted coffee. There's no English accent in the word and it pleases him. Will doesn't need to hide, to lie, with him. Only to those around them.

Hannibal despite having his back turned (trust) can feel blustery eyes upon him.

"If you ever kill Winston and Fudge I will kill you," Will tells him, straight to point, not polite beating around the bush.

The food cackles as Hannibal pauses from stirring it. There's an eyebrow raised, though Will can not see it, because what possibly could have brought this on?

Quickly, Hannibal lowers the heat despite knowing the recipe calls for no such action.

"What brought about such a vow?" Hannibal has to ask because surely Will knows while he does share the fondness for dogs his husband has that has never made him cruel to them.

Will's coffee mug, the one Harry bought him last Christmas that reads 'I only get out of bed for my dogs', is sat on the table. Faintly, Hannibal can hear Will push his glasses further up his nose. With one finger, Hannibal knows even though he cannot see, it's a habit. Some men tighten unto themselves, others try to tower over others as they were buildings instead of simply men, others force themselves to relax to present the air of them not having a care. One of the things Will does before an argument to prepare himself is push his glasses upwards.

"You compare us to Achilles and Patroclus," Will explains, there's a false calmness in his voice. "I doubt you don't know that apparently Patroclus' dogs were murdered by his own lover."

Hannibal hums in acknowledgment, stirring the cooking peppers as he does so. "Achilles' killed them after Patroclus' death. In actuality, he killed two out of nine so they could be with Patroclus on his pyre."

"You kill my dogs after I die and I'll come back and haunt you to make your life hell," Will vehemently swears unto him. A small unseen smile graces Hannibal's lips despite the threat to his assumed happiness. He doesn't say 'please do', Will would not like that answer at this time Hannibal doesn't prod him when he's already walking on thin ice because of his recent actions. Nor does he tell Will that he assumes too much. How could Hannibal be happy when he would be once again left alone?

Stephen King had phrased it properly, Hannibal recalled: 'Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.'

Instead of confessing such thoughts, Hannibal turns off the heat of the stove. Food is momentarily discarded so Hannibal can stride towards his dear boy. There's a smile on his lips despite the subject and a secret in his old eyes about to spilled from his lips.

"Do you know how old I am?" Hannibal asks despite knowing that Will does not.

Wisely, Will squints his eyes at Hannibal. The smile on his lips deepens at the sight.

"No," Will answers and there's an unvoiced question in the single word that was spoken.

Hannibal's hand cups Will's jaw, a single finger rubs absentmindedly against the beard on his husband's face, and doesn't answer the question. Instead Hannibal asks one of his own with dark eyes looking down at Will, "Do you know what a wendigo is my remarkable boy?"

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A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticewriter. Part seven of 'If only it was a simple as a reparo to mend our broken teacup' series.


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